


All Out Of Faith

by ForeverChasingDreams



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, OT5 Friendship, Sex Tape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverChasingDreams/pseuds/ForeverChasingDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I’m all out of faith/ this is how I feel/ I am cold and I am shamed/ lying naked on the floor'<br/>'Torn', by Natalie Imbruglia (and then later, 1D)</p><p>Harry's always had the choice to come out, he's just never felt the need. Now, though, the whole world has seen his naked tattooed body, spread out wantonly with a moan formed on his lips, and it's no longer his decision.<br/>It's time to face the music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Out Of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Written whilst listening to 'Torn' on repeat, because that one line quoted in the summary is what inspired the whole fic. Warnings for mentions of sex (obviously), but nothing graphic, and for harsh swearing.  
> Hope you enjoy, and please don't bring this to the attention of 1D or anyone connected to them.

_‘I’m all out of faith/ this is how I feel/ I am cold and I am shamed/ lying naked on the floor_

 

Harry’s woken up at six am one morning, curled up in the duvet of a hotel room in a city he doesn’t know the name of and a country he can’t remember and he really, really, doesn’t want to be awake right now. They’ve been on tour for months, and exhaustion is hanging over all of them until they’re seeking sleep whenever and wherever they can – on buses, before interviews, quiet corners backstage.

So he’s not impressed when someone shakes him awake so early saying, “Come on Harry, wake up for me please.”

He thinks he should be forgiven for swearing, “Fuck off,” right back when they don’t let up, but apparently that’s unacceptable because a moment later the voice is sharper.

“Harry, up,” it snaps, and he groans but pulls himself up to consciousness and blinks open his eyes. He squints at the pale face and light brown hair before recognising the face.

“Ellie?” he mumbles, yawning and sitting up. “Why’m’I awake?” he slurs.

Her face is sympathetic but harried, and she simply draws the duvet back. Harry yelps and grabs it.

“Naked, here,” he exclaims, and it’s a credit to her media training that his PR representative only rolls her eyes but lets him have the duvet to cover himself.

“I needed you in my hotel room five minutes ago, Styles,” she tells him, stepping back. Her stern expression stops him from making the obvious joke and he only nods, trying to quell a yawn.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, a little confused because honestly he wasn’t in trouble last night. He did the concert, rode out the inescapable post-show high, then went back to bed and crashed until woken up, just like the other lads. He didn’t go out partying, barely spoke to anyone, hasn’t been on Twitter . . . “What’s this about?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I’ll explain when you’re dressed and in my room, okay?” she says. “Be quick. It’s number two-oh-six. Just knock, Paul’s there as well.”

Harry nods mutely, registering that this is serious, whatever it is. “Five minutes,” he says, waiting until she leaves the room to get out of bed and grab some boxers. He pulls on yesterday’s clothes, sprays a liberal amount of deodorant and shoves a head scarf over his hair to keep it out of his eyes. They haven’t had any trouble at the hotel so far, and he really doubts anyone will be up and about at six fucking am anyway, so he doesn’t care about his appearance. He grabs a Lucozade bottle out of his bag where he keeps a ready stash and heads down the hall barefoot, shutting his door with a soft click behind him.

He’s carefully not thinking about the reason behind the morning meeting, keeping his mind blank and the panic at bay.

Or, he mostly is, but he can’t help but ask immediately when Ellie opens her door, “Is my family okay?” because that’s the only thing he can think of that might have happened.

Ellie’s face melts a little and she smiles. “They’re fine, as far as I know,” she reassures him, gesturing for him to come in. He slumps on a sofa in the room, muttering a good morning to Paul who is yawning in the corner, leaning against the wall. It’s weird seeing Paul out of his black tough clothes, but it’s early enough that the man is dressed softly in trackies and a loose t-shirt.

Ellie closes the door and walks over to sit perched on the edge of her bed, her legs crossed and hands folded in her lap.

“Spit it out, then,” Harry says with a small smile, because it’s way too early for guessing games but he doesn’t really have it in him to be rude at any time of the morning.

“Harry,” Ellie says hesitantly, leaning forward. Paul’s doing a good impression of a statue in the corner. “Were you . . . with someone recently? A guy, I mean?”

Harry freezes. He doesn’t- He thinks PR knew about his bisexuality, but he’s never confirmed it and they seem to be of the opinion that as long as he’s discreet they won’t interfere, and he has to keep up the regular meetings with girls, too. He doesn’t want to lie, now, but . . . Why are they asking? And how does Ellie know about Jack, his recent- recent what? Fuck buddy? They’re not dating properly, but Harry has met up with him every time he can whilst on tour, and the last was only a couple of weeks ago in LA, before they flew to wherever the hell they are now.

“Yes,” he answers slowly, cautiously. “Why?” He doesn’t like the look on Ellie’s face.

“Harry,” she says again, and it’s so gentle that he’s beginning to panic.

“What?” he spits out, crossing and then uncrossing his legs. Paul shifts in the corner, and Harry wonders if he already knows what this is about.

“Were you aware of him . . . filming you?” Ellie asks. “While you were- together?”

Harry thinks his heart may have actually stopped beating round about now, because he begins to get an idea of what this is about. “Yes,” he answers quietly, and puts his head in his hands. _Fool_ he thinks. So fucking stupid to ever trust anyone.

Ellie fiddles on her tablet for a few seconds, while Harry wonders if it’s possibly to have a heart attack at the age of twenty, because his is going a mile a minute and trying to break free of his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie murmurs, handing him the tablet. Harry takes it with numb, shaking hands, barely able to look at the headlines and the photos – God, the _photos_ – and he doesn’t dare press the small little play button because he knows what he’s like during sex and now the whole fucking world knows, and he doesn’t need to see it.

He hands it back with a shake of his head, the words _Harry Styles’ Sex Tape_ ingrained on his mind, and he wants to throw up. That’s him. Naked. Spread out wantonly with tattoos marring his pale skin, moaning and panting and that’s Jack, just out of sight for most of it, the back of a body visible but no face, and Harry knows exactly who it is.

“Fuck,” is all he manages to say, and he’s ashamed to hear his voice breaking. Ellie looks sympathetic, Paul concerned. “I didn’t think he’d- Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Harry,” Ellie says gently after a beat of silence. “We need to discuss what to do.”

Paul comes over then, sitting on the other end of the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he offers to Harry, but Harry can’t look at either of them. He feels sick knowing both have probably seen him during sex, seen his naked body with another man- _Oh God._

“It’s unmistakably you,” Ellie tells him, her eyes dark and hands clasped as if in prayer. Harry thinks it’s maybe not a bad idea. “So the option is there to try and deny it, say it’s photoshopped or a look-alike or something, but . . .”

“No one will believe it,” Harry finishes numbly, and the reality of it hits him. Everyone around the world will see this. Christ, his mum and sister may see it, or they’ll hear about it. He jerks away from the sofa, ignores Paul’s movement as if to stop him, and strides to the ensuite bathroom, slamming the door and slumping down besides the toilet, gagging into the bowl.

Nothing comes up, but he doesn’t move. He closes his eyes and cries silently against the white porcelain in a strange toilet in a city he doesn’t know the name of and a country that’s not his own, and wishes this wasn’t happening to him.

 

 *****

 

They give him a few minutes, to be fair, but all too soon Paul is knocking quietly on the door and entering the bathroom, crouching down besides Harry.

“I’m sorry,” the man says again, clasping Harry’s forearm carefully. He covers the anchor tattoo with his large palm and it’s a great metaphor for how Harry’s feeling now. Untethered and adrift.

“We need to know how you want to proceed,” Ellie says from the doorway, and Harry nods, breathes deep, and allows Paul to help him to his feet. “It’s up to you,” Ellie continues as they make their way back to the sofa. “Management have given you free reign for this, within reason, because it’s so personal.”

Harry nods and rests back against the sofa. His hair is falling in wispy curls out from under his bandana, disturbed by leaning over the toilet. “What are my options?” he asks, forcing himself to think rationally.

“Deny it,” Ellie answers immediately. “Or admit it was you. You can present it how you like – unashamed and happy in a relationship, or we can go for the attack. Try and prosecute him, even, and announce it as a great invasion of privacy. Either way, Harry, if you accept it as you . . .”

“I’ll have to come out,” Harry says numbly. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it and has even wished for it at times, but it’s never been management holding him back so much. They’ve pushed for him to meet with girls and set up high profile girlfriends, but it’s always been Harry’s decision in the end to stay in the closet. He couldn’t do that to the band.

“Yes,” Ellie confirms. “It’s your decision, ultimately.”

Harry shakes his head and feels overwhelmed. It’s fucking early in the morning and everything’s happened so fast and he really wishes he could call his mum and cry on the phone to her for a bit and feel like a child again.

“I don’t know,” Harry says helplessly. “I don’t- I can’t think.”

“How about we give you an hour?” Paul suggests, smiling sympathetically. “There’ll be a lot of . . . attention today, so you lads are all staying in the hotel until we go to the venue later. You have a think, call your mum, and I can talk to Ellie about extra security.”

“Yeah okay,” Harry agrees tiredly, standing up and biting his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says to Ellie, because he had been so fucking stupid as to trust a guy who promised him he would give Harry privacy, who said he was a friend, who said he _cared_ about Harry. He’s a fucking fool.

Ellie says, “No,” quietly, and moves forward to hug him before he knows what’s happening. “This wasn’t your fault, Harry,” she tells him, drawing back to look at him closely. “What he did is despicable, and you couldn’t have known.”

Harry blinks rapidly and nods. “Okay,” he mumbles, pulling away. “’m’gonna- gonna call my mum.”

“Good call,” Paul agrees, and Harry flashes him a fake smile before feeling back to his room, thankful the corridors are empty and he doesn’t have to see anyone with red rimmed eyes and a swollen bitten lip.

“Mum,” he says, as soon as she picks up the phone, and maybe she can hear the strain in his voice or the way his throat is thick and the words barely squeeze out, because he can hear her tell Robin to give her a minute, and the background noise gets quieter.

“What’s wrong, Harry love?” she asks gently, and he supresses a sob ruthlessly.

“Have you seen it?” he asks, tugging the duvet up until it covers him completely and resting his head on the soft white pillows, phone cradled to his other ear. He wants to be _home_.

“Seen what?” she queries, and Harry can tell she’s not lying.

He doesn’t know how to answer now, though, doesn’t know how to put the situation into words. “I slept with someone,” he gets out at last. “A guy someone.” Anne makes a hum of encouragement; she’s known about his fluid sexuality since day one. “And he filmed it.”

“Harry,” his mother breathes, and he can tell she’s guessed what’s going on. Harry makes an upset, wordless noise in confirmation.

“Everyone’s going to see it,” he chokes out. “Mum, I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh Harry love,” she croons. “Oh my baby, I’m so sorry. Is it- do they know it’s definitely you?”

“It’s clear,” he tells her in a croaky voice. “Ellie says I can deny it, if I want,” he adds, although his mum doesn’t know Ellie. “But I’m pretty certain she thinks that’ll be useless.”

His mum’s quiet for a bit. “Was it him that leaked it? The one you slept with?” she wants to know, and there is fury there, an anger that Harry has yet to experience but which he’s sure will come later.

Harry hums. “I think so,” he confirms. “Ellie said something about prosecuting but I don’t- I don’t think I want to drag it through court like that.”

“Oh baby,” Anne murmurs. “That’s understandable, love. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says tiredly, curling his body up. “I don’t want to talk about it but everyone’s going to _ask_ and it’ll be so horrible, Mum, I know it will.”

“I know, love, I know. But you did nothing wrong, remember?” Her voice is firm. “You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of; it’s him that should be ashamed, not you. Don’t let anyone put the fault on you.”

Harry nods even though she can’t see, but he can’t stop the slowly leaking tears nor the sniffles. “I want to go home,” he says, so quietly he’s surprised if she hears, and his voice breaks completely half way through. He sounds like a child, a spoilt brat, but it’s how he feels and what he wants and he thinks it’s understandable, just a little, because he’s had his trust betrayed and his private life thrown open to the wolves and he’s halfway around the world without his family and he’s only twenty years old.

“Baby, I want you home as well,” his mum says, and he can hear the faint thickness in her voice that means she’s probably close to crying too. “But you love what you’re doing, sweetheart, and you need to stay.”

“I know,” Harry agrees in a low voice, wiping his eyes. There’s a beat of silence. “I have to tell Ellie what I want to do in a minute,” he tells Anne. “And I don’t know.”

“I think it might be best if you just confirm it, love,” his mother says gently. “It’s up to you, but you’re going to get asked about it either way. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with having a sexual relationship with another man, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

“Okay,” Harry says with a soft sigh. “I don’t want to, like, screw it up for the others, either,” he confesses. “I’m going to have to come out, and we’ll probably lose fans because of it and stuff.”

“They love you,” his mum says strongly. “They won’t blame you for it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry agrees quietly. “I just wish it wasn’t like this, you know? I wanted it to be on my terms, when _I_ was ready.”

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” his mum says. “It’s shitty, what that man did, and I’d whack him if I ever met the guy.”

Harry’s startled into a laugh at his mum’s words, and he can almost see her smiling. “Go and tell Ellie your decision,” she tells him firmly, “and then get some breakfast. I know what you’re like when you’re upset, so don’t think I won’t be checking up on you throughout the day.”

“Mum,” Harry complains, because he may be a bit of an emotional mess at the moment but he is _twenty_ and he has been living alone for three years now. It’s a little embarrassing having his mum ring up Paul or one of the lads to make sure he’s eating properly and not working himself up into a state – and it’s not an idle threat either, she’s done it before.

His mum chuckles. “I love you,” she tells him gently. “Call me later, okay? Let me know how it’s going. I’ll call your sister for you and tell her.”

 _Tell her before she sees the tape_ , Harry finishes in his mind, but he merely says, “Love you too, Mum,” before they hang up. He stares at his phone for a moment with silence hanging in the air, before dragging himself out of bed for the second time this morning and going to face the music again.

 

*****

 

Harry’s eating breakfast in bed an hour later, Ellie off somewhere to make a statement confirming the video as Harry but making it clear that the leaking was without permission and that Harry would value his privacy. He won’t get it, and they both know it, but at least he’s not being presented as slut who sold his video to the media for money.

He’s a little calmer now, or maybe more numb is the better phrase. It has yet to fully hit and he knows the anger is coming next, righteous fury at the man who lied to his face about never telling anyone and who lay his body over Harry’s and told him he cared and who smiled as he kissed Harry and said, “we could be good together,” and who Harry was seriously thinking of coming out for. The man who betrayed Harry without a single word of warning.

But for now, Harry’s sitting eating a bowl of cereal – he doesn’t know what, he’s learned to eat without looking after staying in so many hotels all over the world – and trying to focus on the TV blaring in front of him. It’s barely eight o’clock and he has an empty day before they’re bussed over to the venue in the afternoon. No interviews, no photo shoots, no recording. And none of them are allowed out until Paul sorts out exactly how much of a mess this is going to be.

He’s disturbed from an old episode of Friends by a knock at his door and he sighs, looks down at his cereal and boxers and decides he doesn’t give a shit what he looks like.

“Come in!” he calls, and he’s not really surprised to see it’s Liam, obviously just gotten out of bed. He looks worried, and Harry presumes he’s checked Twitter or seen the news already. Paul and Ellie have a meeting planned for a couple of hours for all of them, including the 5SOS boys, but for now they’ve been allowed to sleep.

“Harry,” Liam says, coming in to the room and shutting the door behind him. He’s wearing trackies and a baggy jumper, beard prickly looking and concern lining his features. Harry tries for a smile but doesn’t succeed very well obviously, because Liam doesn’t look reassured.

“Seen the news, then?” Harry asks lightly, gesturing for Liam to sit down. He doesn’t follow that exactly, choosing instead to crawl on to the bed next to Harry and lean back against the wall, his shoulder pressing warmth through their clothes. Once upon a time Liam had a sense of personal space, but four years in the band has meant that he’s just as willing as the rest of them to install comfort through touch instead of words.

“I think Twitter’s exploded,” Liam answers with a soft smile. He bumps Harry’s shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly, and Harry stares at the TV.

“Not really,” he says honestly, dropping the smile and letting his weariness show. “I didn’t think he’d- He told me I could trust him. Stupid.”

Liam wraps his arms around Harry, strong biceps deceptively gentle as they hold Harry close and he shuts his eyes. “He’s a bastard,” Liam tells him bluntly.

Harry chokes out a laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees, turning his head into Liam’s chest. “I just- Can we not talk about it? For a bit.”

Liam breathes out softly, the warm air waving gently over Harry’s hair. “Course, Haz,” Liam replies, and he lets Harry sit curled in his arms in silence for an age, the TV blaring out a story line that neither of them are following. Liam doesn’t move, even when his arms must start feeling dead, and Harry feels a wash of fondness for the boy who has asked no questions nor demanded answers or made judgements, but who has allowed Harry to seek a hidey-hole in his arms and uttered no complaints.

“You’re my favourite,” he mumbles into Liam’s chest, and he can feel the light laugh that Liam can’t help. He presses a kiss into Harry’s curly out of control hair.

“I’ve got you,” is all Liam says, and they drift back into silence again until there’s another knock on the door. Harry sighs heavily and breaks free of Liam’s embrace.

“It’s open!” Harry calls out, and it’s Niall this time who enters the room sheepishly, blonde hair loose of his usual quiff and looking soft and young. He brightens when he sees Liam already settled in Harry’s bed and doesn’t bring up the reason for his presence, which Harry appreciates.

“Cuddle time,” Niall exclaims instead, a cheerful smile pasted on his face. He kicks off his shoes and launches himself onto Harry’s bed, ignoring Harry’s spluttering. Harry finds himself with a face of dyed hair and pushes Niall into a more comfortable position so that all three of them are pressed together.

“What are we watching?” Niall asks idly, looking at the TV screen.

Harry shrugs. “Friends, I think,” he answers, although looking at the screen he wonders if it’s moved on to a new programmed without him noticing.

“It’s ending,” Liam comments as the credits come on, and Harry tenses when the programme immediately changes to a news update. His face flashes up on the screen and Harry can hear ringing in his ears as he scrabbles to find the remote.

“Harry Styles of One Direction-” the presenter is saying, and Harry reacts in desperation, throwing himself off the bed to hit the off button on the screen itself. It goes mercifully black and silence falls. Harry’s aware of Liam and Niall looking concerned, but he can’t face it right that second.

“I’m going for a walk,” he says tiredly, gesturing vaguely to the door. Liam’s face creases.

“Don’t leave the hotel,” he tells Harry, and Harry glares at him.

“You think I want to go outside?” he demands, and Niall opens his mouth to reply. Harry shakes his head and feels shame flood him as tears prick his eyes. He swipes angrily at them. “I have my phone if anyone wants me,” he says flatly, walking out of the room before either of them can reply.

He finds himself wandering the corridors, keeping himself well away from other people as much as possible. He doesn’t know where to go, can’t face talking to anyone else or meeting a member of the public, and he wonders for a second before an idea comes to him and he cracks the closest thing to a real smile so far that day.

 

*****

 

He gets phone call after phone call once half an hour has passed, but he ignores them all until it’s Paul that’s ringing, because he knows he will be in deep shit if he carries on blanking Paul.

“Where are you?” Paul demands to know as soon as Harry picks up the phone.

“On one of the buses,” Harry answers in a small voice, looking around at his cramped, dark bunk and leaning back against the wall. He pulls the curtain across so that it’s properly black. It’s peaceful here. There’s a few people outside milling around, sorting out equipment for the show tonight and generally chatting, but Harry had quite easily snuck onto the bus without anyone important noticing. The new techies and assistants wouldn’t know to tell Paul or Ellie where he is, but know enough to let him on the bus.

He can hear Paul breathe out in exasperation at the other end. “Everyone’s been looking for you,” he says sternly.

“I know,” Harry replies quietly, tracing idly over his anchor tattoo. “I didn’t want to be found.”

Paul seems a bit more sympathetic when he next speaks. “I know,” he says gently. “But we’ve got a meeting, remember? We need to discuss security and what to say in interviews.”

“Right, shit,” Harry says, remembering. He pulls back the curtains and hops out of the bunk. His feet are bare and cold, and they only get colder as he steps out of the bus and walks across to the back entrance of the hotel. He waves to a couple of the techies with a smile, and listens to Paul telling him where to go.

“I’m just coming,” he says, shivering as the air conditioning in the hotel hits him.

“Good,” Paul confirms, and hangs up on him. Harry sighs, pockets his phone, and tries his best to get to the hotel room without meeting anyone. He’s mostly successful; an elderly couple give him a strange look which may either be because they recognise him or because he’s wandering around barefoot with an old rag tied in his hair and necklaces jangling around his neck. He smiles at them anyway, figures he may as well give a good impression, and reaches the room without any more trouble.

Everyone’s already seated when he walks in, his band intermingled with Five Seconds of Summer. Paul’s there, and Lou and Ellie and a couple of others from their management team that Harry knows. He sees eyes flick to him as he enters, but he only waves a little and takes a place next to Louis on the sofa, who shifts up to let him sit down. Louis immediately wraps an arm around him and Harry lets himself lean in, breathing the scent that is so completely _Louis_ and feeling the warmth of his skin heat Harry’s cold arms.

“Alright?” Louis asks quietly, his breath a whisper of wind against Harry’s ear. Harry nods.

“Right,” Ellie says loudly, calling order to the gathering. “I’m sure you all know the situation by now,” she continues, glancing at Harry quickly. “We’re going with confirmation but angry, alright? We’ll deal with the press side, see if we can get any questions barred from interviews for a couple of days, for both bands, but this shit is going to make the media an absolute nightmare for a while.”

Louis tightens his arm around Harry, and Ashton leans forward so that he can see past Louis. “Holding up?” the Aussie checks, and Harry grants him a little smile. “m’alright,” he answers quietly, before they all turn back to listen to Ellie.

“There’s a group of paps outside the hotel and apparently already at the venue,” Ellie is saying. “No stopping to sign today, boys, just straight through. No comment, alright? Whatever they yell, just keep going and don’t reply. You know the drill.”

They do. They’re not unused to paps screaming things at them, at anger thrumming under their skin but learning to push it down, put your heads down and face forward, walking straight past and waiting until they’re inside. 5SOS might struggle a bit more, and Harry reckons Ellie will talk to them directly after the meeting to make sure they’ll be okay.

Paul takes over. “We’re taking extra security on the buses today,” the man explains. “You’re going to be going in as two separate bands, both surrounded by men. Harry, you’re in the middle,” he looks straight at him, but Harry can’t find it in himself to look back.

“They’re going to say shitty things,” Ellie says directly to him, her voice quieter. “We’re keeping you in the middle to try and stop them being able to get to you, but don’t rise to it, alright? Same goes to the rest of you.” She looks sternly at Louis and Liam then, and they both adopt innocent expressions.

“We wouldn’t dare,” Louis promises, but Harry doubts his sincerity. He’s a little shit, Louis, but so protective over those he sees as his, and Harry’s definitely included in that. He always finds it hard not to lash out at anyone threatening them, and it’s going to be ten times worse today.

“So, Twitter questions will be monitored, as always, and nothing about this will get through,” Ellie moves on. “You’ve got a couple of interviews tomorrow, 1D, and 5SOS you have a radio one in the morning – early, someone will be by to wake you up. We’ll brief you all fully before then.”

There’s a smattering of nods.

“Most importantly,” Ellie starts to wrap it up, “happy faces today, lads! You’re still guys on tour, having the times of your lives, and there is to be no tension whatsoever between Harry and the rest of you, alright? We can’t have homophobic rumours going around.”

Harry tenses at the reminder of his coming out. The guys all know he’s bi – bit hard to miss, really, when he’s made out with men in front of them, so he’s not worried about their reaction to that, really, but . . . the whole situation, maybe.

“Any questions?” Ellie asks, looking around. People are shaking their heads, so she smiles. “Alright then, off you go! 5SOS, I need you lot to stay behind for a second to run over some stuff.”

Louis tugs Harry to his feet, not letting go of his shoulder, despite the fact that when standing Harry is a fair bit taller. Liam, Niall and a yawning Zayn join them, forming a loose circle.

“My room?” Liam offers. “Food and Fifa sounds good to me.”

Niall grins. “I want crisps,” he demands, leading the way out of the hotel room and down the corridor. Louis is a warm presence at Harry’s side, and he’s grateful for it.

“Aren’t they chips, here?” Zayn asks thoughtfully, and Niall shrugs.

“I’ll have either,” he declares, while Liam rolls his eyes and squeezes Niall’s stomach.

“Greedy leprechaun,” Liam teases, and Harry cracks a smile at that. “Why couldn’t you sniff out pots of gold instead of food?”

Louis snorts next to him. “And do what with it, Payno?” he asks laughingly. “Not sure we need a lot more of that. Harry here has bought, what, five sports cars? Six?”

Harry shakes himself out of his cloud and sticks his tongue out. “I like cars,” he says simply. “They’re, like, an investment.”

“Not if you crash them,” Zayn points out, the first to enter Liam’s room and immediately curling up on top of the duvet on the double bed. “Ah, this is the life,” he says, face flat against a pillow.

“I’ve never crashed one!” Harry denies with a smile, and Liam raises a sceptical eyebrow.

“What was up with that motorbike the other day, then?” he asks.

“It broke down,” Harry protests. “Nothing to do with me, just the stupid thing broke-” On the way back from Jack’s, he remembers. It had been in LA. He’d been smiley and happy and sexed out, wondering if next time he spoke to Jack he would have the guts to ask for something a bit more than fuck buddies. Louis seems to notice that he’s suddenly gone quiet, because he bumps his hip with Harry’s.

“Alright, Hazza?” he asks cheerfully, but with a hint of concern. “Forget what you were going to say? They do say it’s all downhill from twenty . . .”

Harry sticks a foot out as they walk towards the bed, and Louis falls straight over it. Harry’s about to crow about the oldest trick in the book when Louis grabs his arm and somehow manages to tug Harry down with him so that they’re lying tangled in a heap together. Harry starts to laugh, startled and winded and maybe a bit hysterical, but Louis joins in after a second.

“Lads?” Niall checks, leaning over the side of the bed to see them on the floor. “Think they’ve gone mad,” he says to Liam and Zayn, and Harry can just about see the both of them roll their eyes.

“They’d have to be sane in the first place for that,” Liam says, and Louis next to him cackles, reaching out to tickle Harry. Harry yelps and squirms, trying to break away from their mess of limbs but not quite succeeding.

“Get off me you twat,” he protests, unable to stop the giggling. His hair is falling everywhere and his long limbs are sprawled across the carpet and Louis’ face is too close to him, his mouth gaping wide and laughing and Harry feels settled, here. Grounded.

 

*****

 

He avoids newspapers and the internet and TV entirely, and he refuses to discuss it with anyone. He’s going to live in blissful ignorance for the day, he’s already decided, and he’ll face the consequences tomorrow when he has interviews and public appearances. For now, he’s going to stay with the four best friends he’s ever had, curled on a bed too small for all five of them, watching films and playing Fifa and carrying on as normal.

 

*****

 

“Right lads, time to head over,” Paul announces much later on, poking his head into Liam’s room. They’re sprawled on top of each other in a pose that is increasingly common, and Paul doesn’t even blink at their proximity. “Lou wants to see you quickly first and she wants you presentable, so you might need to get changed.”

They all look at each other’s rumpled clothing and bed-head hair, and Harry sighs.

“Up and at them,” Paul prompts loudly, and they gradually pull themselves apart. Louis ends up rolling onto the floor, groaning, while Liam has to physically pull the duvet off Zayn. Niall gives Harry a yank upwards, and they lean on each other for a couple of seconds before Harry takes the lead and wanders out of the room, waving his hand as a goodbye behind him. He darts into his own room before he sees anyone, and stares at the bathroom for a bit, deciding he can shower and wash his hair when he gets there. He shrugs on a tight pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt, and rearranges his hair under the headscarf.

“It’ll do,” he says to himself in the mirror, poking at his red rimmed eyes and tired looking skin with a frown. Lou will deal with it, so he heads over to her room. Niall’s already there, his hair getting gelled up.

“Take a seat, Harry,” Lou instructs him with a gentle smile. “I’ll be done in a second.”

“Why are we getting ready here?” Harry asks idly, leaning backwards on the bed and staring at the ceiling. It’s white, very boring, and he casts his eyes around for something to keep his attention. A painting on the wall looks interesting, so he hops up to look at that.

“Lots of paps outside the venue tonight,” Lou answers him. “And you lot are a mess today, so we’re tidying you up a little before you get photographed.”

“Vultures,” Niall comments, but his tone is light hearted and not bitter at all. It’s a part of the job none of them are thrilled about, but they’ve learnt over time that getting wound up doesn’t help at all.

Harry runs his hand lightly over the painting – an old one, by the looks of it. A simple landscape. He sighs. Boring.

“Your turn,” Lou turns around to tell him, and Harry lopes over to take the chair Niall vacates.

“Think Paul wants you on the bus when you’re ready, Niall,” Lou says to him, and Niall nods.

“See you later, Haz,” he calls, striding out of the room, and Harry closes his eyes in the silence as Lou fiddles with his hair and peers at him in the mirror.

She strokes the bags under his eyes. “Not much sleep?” she asks quietly, and he quirks a smile.

“Ellie woke me up early,” he explains tiredly. Lou hums in acknowledgement, wiping concealer over his eyes as much as she can and smoothing the skin tone with foundation.

“Not a lot I can do now with the bloodshot eyes, love,” she tells him. “I’ll tidy the hair for now, but I want it washed once we get there, alright?”

“’Kay,” Harry agrees, and lets her work quietly.

“Keep the scarf or gel it back?” she breaks the silence once, and Harry doesn’t even have to think about that one.

“Scarf,” he answers immediately, and wonders if she knows that he likes the security of them because she just nods with a smile as if she was expecting the answer. She folds the scarf so that it’s an even width and wraps it around his head, pulling strands of hair in different directions until it lays the way she wants.

“Off you go, then,” she says eventually, stepping back. Harry opens his eyes and grins at her, standing up and wrapping his arms around her in a bear hug.

“You’re the best,” he whispers in her ear, and she laughs.

“Get on the bus,” she tells him brightly. “And if you see any of the others, tell them they better hurry their arses along, I haven’t got all day.”

Harry nods and traipses out of the room calling, “See you later!” behind him.

 

*****

 

It’s literal hell, and Harry can feel himself trembling. There are paps on all sides screaming at him, yelling rude words and taunts, their yells most certainly not suitable for the normal crowd of teenage girls standing next to them.

“Keep going,” Paul orders, moving them all forward. They’re in a huddle, Harry in the centre. Liam and Zayn are frowning deeply, pressing into Harry’s side in a silent show of support. Louis has his fists clenched and is clearly trying to ignore their words, whereas Niall is silent and somewhat pale, still anxious around the crowds.

Harry’s trying desperately to gain the numbness back. He doesn’t want to feel this yet, doesn’t want to have the breakdown the paps are asking for but he can’t stop listening to them, can’t help wanting to turn around and scream at them that he’s not a _fucking whore_ and he didn’t sell the tape for money and he’s not fucking _proud_ of it. There’s more, taunts about his sexuality and whether he’s coming out as gay or bi and whether he enjoys having a prick in his arse and-

“You’re alright,” comes Zayn’s voice, low and dark next to him, but it’s reassuring in the way it’s supposed to be. Harry brings his breathing under control and nods, knows he must look pale and sweaty and ugly and nowhere near as settled as Ellie wanted them all to appear.

“Nearly through,” Liam tells them soothingly, and brushes his shoulder against Harry’s. Harry blocks out the noise for the last few feet, and then, _then_ , they’re inside and it’s quiet and safe and Harry’s just so relieved that he sags to his knees as soon as the door shuts.

Liam crouches down immediately, his face concerned and open. “Okay?” he asks softly, and Harry tries to plaster on a smile. He’s not convincing, not at all, and he thinks he may lose it just a little if he has to stay here.

“m’gonna- have a shower,” he stumbles out, pushing himself up and pulling away from the worried eyes. It’s their first night at the venue but they’re all pretty similar, and he really doesn’t care if he finds the showers or not because he just needs some space to _breathe_ , first of all.

He finds himself on the rooftop. It’s a large flat area, and Harry can hear the excited chatter of fans and see light glinting off cameras, but they can’t quite see him, and Harry’s relieved. He settles back against the wall, sliding to the floor and burrowing his head against his knees.

“Not going to cry,” he whispers to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he chants and he’s really, really not.

 

*****

 

Louis finds him not ten minutes later, and he says nothing, just sits down next to him with that characteristic Louis scent and the warmth of his body seeping into Harry’s and he feels himself begin to calm, just a little. Louis gently rests a hand on his back and waits it out, lets Harry struggle to keep his breathing even and lets him swipe angrily at his eyes because he’s a twenty year old guy, for fuck’s sake, not a baby.

“Alright?” Louis asks eventually, his voice quiet and soft and beautifully concerned, his voice washing over Harry like balm.

“Yeah,” Harry answers slowly, letting out a breath haltingly and uncurling, resting his head against the granite wall. “Sorry,” he adds, and Louis grins wryly at him.

“Reckon you’ve got a good reason for freaking out,” Louis tells him lightly. “Did you- listen to them?”

Harry bites his lip. “Hard not to,” he confesses lowly. “Couldn’t-” he turns his head away, takes a breath. “This is going to fuck things up,” he says instead.

Louis doesn’t let his smile drop, only huffs a little. “Oh, Hazza,” he says, “none of this was your fault.”

Harry doesn’t deny that he meant that, doesn’t try to proclaim that he was merely commenting on the situation and not feeling guilty, because Louis knows him better than himself, a lot of the time, and there’s little point fighting it.

“Yeah,” he says again, but the word is empty and Louis curls an arm around his fully.

“You trusted him,” Louis murmurs against his skin, the words writing themselves into his body. “And he was a prick. Not you. None of this was you.”

“That’s not what they think,” Harry answers softly. “They think I’m a slut or a- a whore and that I wanted the whole fucking world to see me have sex with a _guy_.” His voice breaks on the last word, and Louis squeezes him.

“Liking a guy isn’t a crime either, Haz,” Louis says, cutting to the heart of it with a skill only Louis seems to possess. “It’s- It’s not something you _choose_. It’s not a bad thing. We love you for it, just like we love you for having a slow voice or for being clumsy. It’s part of you.”

Harry nods, looks away, and sighs. “A part of me that people hate me for,” he mutters, and Louis is frowning now.

“Then they’re idiotic twats,” Louis snaps, and Harry barks a surprised laugh. “We love you,” Louis says, calmer. “We know you.”

Harry smiles at him, slow, gradual, helpless at Louis’ words and support and comfort. “People are going to ask,” he says quietly, and Louis stares at him until Harry meets his eyes.

“Then, Styles,” Louis tells him sternly, “you tell them you’re bisexual and proud, your ex is a twat and that you’d really rather no one watched the video because the face you make when you come is fucking _ugly_ , mate.”

Harry laughs; he’s useless in the face of Louis’ humour. He laughs and laughs for a while and Louis joins in, bumping his shoulder with Harry’s and looking at him with soft eyes when he thinks Harry isn’t looking.

“We’ll be alright,” Louis whispers when they’ve calmed, leaning against each other to a backdrop of screams and sunlight shining down on them. Harry doesn’t reply, but the weight of earlier is gone. They’ll get through it.

 

*****

 

The performance is as good as ever, girls screaming and crying and singing along with them, and all five of them are grinning from ear to ear as they finally leave the stage that night. It’s late and they’re exhausted, but the high from the show is unexplainable and so they can’t help themselves when they dance around backstage, giggling to each other and winding up every member of their team who they happen to come across. They’re shuttled back to the hotel, but there’s no paps this time and Harry cannot stop being light-hearted and cheerful and winding Niall up by tickling him or pissing Zayn off by teasing him about Perrie and smashing kisses onto his cheeks.

“Feel the love,” Louis cheers, copying Harry and planting a wet smack onto Liam’s cheek, who merely rolls his eyes fondly.

“All of you have too much love to give,” Zayn grumbles, but he can’t hide the smile when Harry rubs their noses together in a butterfly kiss.

They’re sensible enough to go to their own rooms, though, after too many experiences when they stay up all night together and strongly regret it when they’re shaken awake at seven or eight the next morning. Harry closes the door to his after yelling goodbye down the corridor and kicks off his shoes, shedding his clothes down to his boxers as well.

He can’t quite pinpoint the moment when his high turned into anger. Maybe it’s when he remembers the paps, or when he opens his Twitter feed and sees some of the disgusting things people have been saying about him. Maybe it’s when he looks at his phone and sees a text from Jack with the simple message, _sorry_.

Well fuck him very much, Harry thinks, and he desperately wants to do a pop star moment and chuck his phone and then maybe his TV across the room. He settles for lobbing pillows instead, breathing coming hard and fast and tears leaking down his face.

He feels _betrayed_ more than anything, furious at the fact that the guy he trusted and liked and may have even come to love could sell him out to the papers, could give them something so inherently intimate and private and _fuck_ , how could Harry have been so fucking stupid as to believe someone when they said they cared about him? Bloody fucking gold-diggers, the lot of them, and he screams this into his duvet, trying to cling on to the anger because the sadness he can feel coming promises to be oppressive and invasive and long-lasting and he should be so fucking angry right now, and he _is_ , but he mostly just feels fragile.

He lays flat on his bed and stares up at the ceiling, half naked and lonely and angry and upset and wishing he could be as shatterproof as those rulers always promised to be because he thinks he may fracture in the night, a china doll crumbling to dust when no one’s there to hear her cry.

Fuck the metaphors too, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. Fuck the whole fucking world, fuck society for making people like Jack who think it’s perfectly fine to fuck somebody and _lie_ and sell their sex tape to the media because they’re just a celebrity, right? Not like they’re real or anything.

Except Harry feels so horribly real, and he wishes he didn’t.

 

*****

 

He pays for his late night breakdown the next day, when his eyes are puffy and watery and bloodshot, and the blue bags under his eyes are huge and overwhelming. Lou tuts at him but lets him cradle Lux so he’s pretty certain the reaction is more out of concern than annoyance. Harry plays quietly with the baby girl, not that she’s a baby anymore, while Lou fusses with his face and make-up and hair, her gentle eyes meeting his in the mirror and smiling sympathetically.

“Hang on in there,” she tells him when she’s done, taking Lux back. Harry feels bereft without her, open and vulnerable, but he fakes a smile and follows the others into the interview room.

It goes badly from the start. Louis is tense and tight-lipped, and the majority of the questions are fielded by Liam and Niall. Harry blankly ignores the interviewers’ stares, well aware that questions on the sex tape have been banned but queries about his sexuality have not, and that the invasiveness is yet to come. Zayn is quiet as normal, seated next to Harry and squeezing his hip subtly every so often in reassurance, and Harry is thankful.

“So who here is single?” comes the loaded question that gets asked every fucking time to the point where they are sick to death of it, and Louis, Liam and Zayn all shake their heads.

“The three of us are taken,” Liam answers for them, gesturing to the guys in question.

“So, Niall you’re single,” the female interviewer checks, and Niall winks.

“Why, you interested?” he flirts with a laugh, and Harry rolls his eyes. He curses himself a moment later because attention is drawn to him.

“Are you going to flirt with me too, Harry?” she asks brightly, but there is a glint in her eyes. “Or are you more interested in Will here?”

Harry gives her a small, fake, stupid smile, as if he doesn’t know exactly what she’s asking. The video of him having sex with a guy kind of clued the media in, but he has yet to confirm his sexuality.

“I’m not really interested in anyone at the moment,” he answers vaguely, and Liam gives him a sympathetic grin.

“We’re a bit too busy to be dating, really,” Niall tells her cheerfully, trying to take the attention of Harry, and he’s grateful but it doesn’t work.

“Harry has obviously had some free time recently,” Will says with a laugh, and Harry bites his lip and forces a light grin. For fuck sake, as if he doesn’t know what they’re aiming for. Questions on the tape may be banned, but journalists will stop at nothing to get their scoop.

Harry refuses to give them the satisfaction of an answer, and the woman – Julia? – soon moves on.

“Where to next then, guys?” she asks, and Liam once again takes the lead. Harry carefully leans his neck back and breathes out. Zayn slings an arm around his shoulder and whispers, “alright?” into Harry’s ear.

Harry gives him a small nod, and the interview continues.

 

*****

 

The next one is worse. There’s no subtle fishing around the subject this time, just a straight out question that Harry can’t avoid.

“How would you label yourself, then, Harry?” the interviewer asks, and Harry thinks of brushing him off completely, but catches the eye of one of their management team, who looks meaningfully at him. Harry had refused to let them put his sexuality into a statement, and this had been their agreement, to clear it up in an interview.

“I don’t think things like that can be, like, labelled fully,” Harry says, slowly, thoughtfully, because he may not like it but he is still himself and he won’t _lie_ in his answer. “But I guess, if I had to pick one, I think . . . bisexual? I’m not really fussed about gender.”

“We try to avoid labels and things,” Louis joins in with a grin. “Like, people are always trying to do that to us. I’m the funny one, Zayn’s the mysterious one, Harry’s the cute one, Niall’s- Niall, what are you?”

“The Irish one,” Niall laughs, and Zayn smirks and agrees.

“Liam’s the sensible one,” Zayn says. “Except, like, none of us are exactly that.”

“We don’t like labels,” Liam surmises with a smile, and the interviewer nods.

“What are the weirdest labels you’ve been given?” he asks, and Harry lets his mind blur and his mouth soften and trusts, then, that his four best friends, four bandmates, will handle the interview, and Liam’s grounding leg pressed against Harry reassures him, like the touch is writing, _I’m here_ , into Harry’s skin. Harry lets himself _trust_.

 

*****

 

Harry sees a sign that night at the concert. It’s held by two giggling girls and it reads, _Harry Moan For Me Instead_ , and he wants to throw up so much because they’re fourteen, fifteen at most, complete strangers, but they’ve seen it, heard about it, watched it, looked on with glazed eyes as Harry writhes on an unknown bed and whimpers and comes for a random male. It’s disgusting and degrading and humiliating and he can feel the burn of it and the sting of it in his throat and he doesn’t join in with the chorus of _Live While We’re Young_ because all he can think of is teenage girls seeing his sexed out body and making jokes about it.

 _Not real_ , they think, and sometimes he wishes that were true.

 

*****

 

He demands to sign things that night and goes out to greet some of the fans waiting for them afterwards instead of following Paul’s instructions and heading straight to the buses. His security man is frowning at him, trying to usher him along, but Harry ignores him, signing paper and arms and taking photos and saying with every smile and every hello, _I’m real, I’m a person, see me_. He’s the same person he was before and he’ll be the same person afterwards and he’s not some fictional character they can move around in their heads and watch a sex tape of without thinking of how it makes him feel to have something so private in the public domain.

“We love you, Harry,” a random girl screams, not close enough to get a photo or signature, and he smiles and says thank you and thinks, _you don’t even know me_.

 

*****

 

It doesn’t help, the contact with fans, and Harry’s not surprised when Louis follows him into his room that night, sitting and watching on Harry’s bed as Harry chucks off his clothes with venom and curls up in his boxers on top of the duvet.

“You alright?” Louis asks, and Harry looks at him.

“What the fuck do you think?” he answers, and Louis smiles at him, a little sharp and a whole lot real.

“Angry?” he queries, and Harry sits up.

“So fucking furious,” he breathes, and Louis can maybe sense the oncoming breakdown because he latches on to Harry and presses a kiss to his hair.

He says, “You’ve a right to be,” and it’s not quite acceptance and it’s not pity but it’s Louis, and Harry lets his eyes soften and in turn wraps himself around his smaller bandmate.

“I hate him,” he says, muffled against Louis’ skin. “I hate him so much.”

“I know,” Louis whispers, the words meaningless but the gesture appreciated.

“I’m real,” Harry says then, quiet and low, and Louis maybe doesn’t know what he’s on about but he runs his hands up and down Harry’s sides anyway.

“Always real to us, Hazza,” and it’s the nickname combined with the words that make Harry huff out a breath and push down the lump in his throat and bury himself against Louis.

“You’re alright,” Louis tells him, pushing Harry to lie down but not letting go, and it helps, because he feels a lot more real and a lot more grounded, connected to another person like he is, clinging to Louis so he doesn’t get swept away.

 

*****

 

It takes a while for things to die down. Zayn has to hold onto Liam one day when the three of them are out together and photographers turn up. They’re nice, at first, just taking pictures and asking for them to look one way or another, but it gets a little nasty after a while when a few more turn up.

“Look this way, Harry!” they call, and then, “Are you going to make us another video? My wife appreciated it; loved the size of your-”

Liam steps forward threateningly, his face thunder and the pap breaks off, clicking away as he gets the reaction he’s looking for. Harry turns away, heads for a shop to find some peace, and is vaguely aware of Zayn’s tight grip around Liam’s shoulder, outwardly comforting but obviously restraining to anyone who knows them. They follow Harry into the building, some sort of boutique shoe shop with clouded glass windows and enough privacy to let Harry sit down on one of the sofas and bite his lip.

“Fuckers,” Liam swears, and Zayn is already dealing with the shop assistants, apologising and explaining the situation.

“You shouldn’t react,” Harry says to Liam quietly, and the man drops down next to him and wraps a hand gently around his wrist.

“You shouldn’t have to take it,” Liam retorts softly, his anger appearing to fade. The paps are still outside, trying to take photos through the window but struggling with the abundance of displays in the shop.

Harry shrugs. “Part of the job, ain’t it?”

Liam shakes his head and Harry smiles wryly at him, letting him lapse into silence. Zayn comes over shortly.

“I rang Paul,” he says tiredly, running a hand through his hair and unsettling his quiff. “He’s sending security.”

“We’re going to get a bollocking,” Liam moans, looking worried. Harry laughs.

“It was my idea to go out without telling anyone,” he says lightly. “I’ll get the blame.” It’s fair enough; it was his stupid suggestion. He’d felt so confined and off balance and he’d needed to be normal, for once, and had ridiculously thought that the city they were in was small enough that the chances of them getting mobbed were pretty small. Turns out he was wrong, and now all three of them are suffering for it.

“Nah,” Zayn disagrees. “We all agreed with it. What can he do, realistically?”

“Make us sleep on the bus,” Liam suggests, but his tone is no longer so downhearted. “Stop us going out at all ever.”

Harry shakes his head with a grin. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” he chastises.

“Ooh, melodramatic,” Zayn teases, flopping down onto an adjacent sofa. “Who’s been reading a dictionary between shows?”

Harry reaches across to kick him lightly. “Jealous because I’m cleverer than you?” he asks jokingly, but they get interrupted.

“Would you like some coffee?” one of the shop assistants asks hesitantly, approaching them with a cautious smile. “We’ve got a machine in the back.”

“That sounds amazing,” Harry tells her honestly, and Liam and Zayn chime in with their own agreement. She grins and bustles off, and Harry lets himself fall back so that his head is on Zayn’s lap. Zayn threads his hands through his hair and Harry lets his face show a small smile as he shuts his eyes.

“Some of them are leaving,” Liam remarks quietly, still watching the commotion out of the window.

“Not a lot,” Zayn points out, and Harry lets the voices wash over him. “I feel like we should buy some shoes or something to make up for it.”

“Harry could always do with another pair of boots,” Liam mutters with a chuckle, and Harry opens his eyes long enough to glare at Liam and stick his tongue out.

“Sorry,” announces the shop assistant, “I didn’t know if you wanted sugar or anything, it’s just three with milk.”

Harry sits up and takes the coffee. “You’re a lifesaver, thanks,” he says, just as Zayn and Liam express similar sentiments. “I’m sorry about- all this,” he continues quietly, and she shakes her head.

“It’s alright,” she tells him, her face open and genuine. She’s tall, fairly slender, about forty. She’s probably the manager on duty or something similar, because she seems to have taken charge of the others. “Gets us publicity, doesn’t it?”

Liam barks a laugh. “Very true,” he agrees.

“We’ll be out of your hair in about ten minutes,” Zayn adds anyway, looking up from his phone, presumably having received a text from Paul or one of the other security guys.

And they are, battling through the crowds of screaming girls and clicking cameras, white light flashing in their faces and yells becoming the anthem to their fight.

 

*****

 

“That was one of the stupidest things you lot have ever done,” is all Paul has to say about it, his face tight and angry and maybe more than a little concerned.

“Sorry,” Harry says, and means it precisely not at all, because he needed the freedom and he needed to push and find his own balance and control something in his life, for once, and he got that. At a price, but he’s learnt by now that everything has a cost. Want a fuck with a hot boy? Have a sex tape released. Want a bit of time to browse shops without security? Face the paps alone.

He’s got money, but that doesn’t mean prices are inconsequential. It’s a different type of wealth.

 

*****

 

There’s an article about him and Nick in one of the tabloids back home a few days after. Harry doesn’t see it, just gets a call from Grimmy early in the morning when he’s getting prodded about by Lou before a photo shoot.

“Where’s my amazing orgasms I’m apparently getting from you, then, Popstar?” Grimmy demands as soon as Harry picks up the phone, trying to awkwardly hold it so he can hear and talk but it doesn’t get in Lou’s way.

“What?” Harry asks slowly, his head a little foggy and confused.

“We’re a thing, didn’t you know?” Grimmy laughs, bright and easy from the other end. Harry stares at himself in the mirror, still not getting it. “Listen: ‘Nick Grimshaw and Harry Styles have always been known to have a close relationship, but with Styles recently declaring himself bisexual, people have been wondering if another announcement from the two is on its way.’”

“What the fuck are you reading?” Harry yelps, and Lou swats at the back of his head and hisses, _stop moving_ at him.

“Some tabloid,” Nick dismisses. “Point is, Styles, I’m feeling a bit lonely without your hot body. According to a close source, we’ve been all over each other for months now.” Harry heaves a sigh. “Hey, wait,” Nick interrupts himself, “should I be annoyed at you for cheating with that guy? What was his name? Because really, my mum always told me to only get with guys who’re going to respect me in the morning-”

“Oh god, _please_ shut up,” Harry whines, unable to hide his grin. The article’s stupid and untrue and completely baseless, but he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed when Grimmy is making stupid comments and comforting him in his own jokey way. He’s a bit of an emotionally-constipated twat, Grimmy, but he has his heart in the right place. Most of the time.

“Shan’t,” Nick says immediately. “You’ve got to be nice to me, babes.”

Harry groans theatrically. “I’ll be nice to you when you deserve it,” he retorts, and flinches when Lou puts something cold on his hair.

Grimmy huffs. “People should be lovely to me _all_ the time,” he declares. “I’m a beautiful person and you, Haz, as my boyfriend, should appreciate this.”

“That would be great if we were boyfriends,” Harry tells him in amusement. “But really, you’re too much of a twat for me to put up with for more than a day.”

“I cannot believe you-” Nick starts to exclaim, but Harry is distracted by Lou pushing him out of the chair and the black haired guy in the corner tapping his watch and gesturing to the door. Harry sighs.

“Got to go,” he tells Nick fondly. “I’ll speak to you later.”

“Bye, Haz,” Grimmy says, slightly moodily. “Try not to cheat on me again. Or if you do, I want to see the photos.”

“You are _such_ a wanker,” Harry tells him, but he’s laughing because Nick’s not serious and Harry adores him to pieces, platonically and fiercely, and he makes everything seem a little brighter for that moment.

 

*****

 

It’s not easy. The articles keep on coming, and Harry can no longer stop himself checking his Twitter mentions and the comments on his Instagram photos. There’s hundreds from fans, telling him they love him and support him, and even loads saying how brave he is and how he’s made it so much easier for them, given them courage to fight back and open up and profess their hidden love to the world.

But equally, there’s a lot screaming at him to get back in the closet, that no one gives a fuck about him, that he should burn in hell for daring to not care about the layout of someone’s body or how many X chromosomes a person has, for thinking that maybe personality mattered a little bit more than looks. But no, apparently that’s abnormal and evil and he shouldn’t be corrupting their children with his ways, shouldn’t be showing love as something to be cherished.

He gets a little emotional. Liam steals his phone for a day when he tweets, _we press play, don't press pause/ progress, march on_ and the response to the tweet is immediate and frightening in its intensity. He gets so overwhelmed by it all; being out and still not that proud and having to fight for what he believes is a basic human right to love who he wants.

He notices the next day, when he has his phone back, that all of the boys have copied him.

@Louis_Tomlinson: _I might not be the same, but that’s not important/ no freedom until we’re equal, damn right I support it._

@Real_Liam_Payne: _love is patient/ love is kind_

@zaynmalik: _strip away the fear/ underneath it’s all the same love_

@NiallOfficial: _it’s human rights for everybody, there is no difference/ live on and be yourself_

Harry thinks the tears are justified. The lads just hold him, and Harry knows that he has the four best friends in the world, and even if no one else sees him as real and even if he’s universally hated, he can live with anything as long as he gets to keep this.

 

*****

 

One of the twitter questions that night at the show is, _What’s your favourite song?_ And Harry looks at the four guys standing next to him and then at his _I Can’t Change_ tattoo, and says, “Same Love,” and thinks, _this is what my life is now_.

And then, _I’m okay with that_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are much appreciated.  
> The last song quoted by all the boys is, of course, 'Same Love' by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis. It's beautiful and has been known to bring me to tears, so please do check it out.


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